


Hour to Hour, Note to Note

by iddy_syncratic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Angst, Biting, Blood, Come Marking, Come Shot, Discussions of Incest and Rape, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Parent/Child Incest, Past Child Abuse, Season/Series 01, Someone Help Will Graham, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4414871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iddy_syncratic/pseuds/iddy_syncratic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will braces himself for Hannibal’s inevitable questions - because for all that Will knows or thinks of Hannibal, he knows Hannibal is anything but oblivious, and Will is being obvious.  He takes a slow breath in, waiting, but Hannibal says nothing.  Instead, he brings his hand up, gently tracing Will’s cheek before stilling, cradling Will’s face and Will fights to not lean into it because fuck, he hates Hannibal right now, for not doing this the way he wants it done, for not <i>getting it over with</i>, but Will hates himself way, way more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hour to Hour, Note to Note

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: This story has disturbing themes. There is no rape or incest or underage shown in the story, but all of them are talked about and discussed, so if any of those things bother you, don't read on.
> 
> Also, this is a super embarrassing story that I referred to in my head as 'Will has mommy/daddy issues and Hannibal tries to fuck them out of him' while writing it, so I'm just... kinda... sorry that it's ended up being 13,000 words but hope someone else likes this mess of a fic.
> 
> This is the first time I've posted fic in years, and only like the third fic I've ever posted, and it's not beta'd at all or anything, so I'd appreciate any feedback, if anyone's kind enough to give it. (As long as it's anything but 'you are a horrible person this fic is horrible', thanks.)

Will’s been fucking Hannibal for four and a half weeks when he finds out his mother’s died. 

He probably wouldn’t have ever told Hannibal, wouldn’t have told anyone, but he gets the phone call that alerts him to her death while he’s in Hannibal’s kitchen, watching him prepare dinner for the two of them, and Will’s not quick enough to keep the surprise and shock out of his voice when he realizes what the lawyer is telling him.

He hangs up after just a few surreal moments and knows he will turn around to find Hannibal staring at him. Hannibal has warned him before about how rude he finds it, Will answering a phone call while with a friend - or a psychiatrist or a fuck buddy, Hannibal hadn’t spell out his role in the situation exactly - which only meant that Will now got the tiniest bit of perverse pleasure when Jack called him when he was with Hannibal. This pleasure lasted for the few seconds before Jack explained the details of his call, always another crime scene, another dead body that needed Will’s attention right away.

Will had been certain this was the same, Jack calling on some local police station’s number, and so he is utterly unprepared when a bored sounding voice asks him to confirm if William Jesse Graham is his full name and if he is the son of Laurie Eaves. He turns away from Hannibal to confirm both, but remains sitting on the kitchen stool where he’d been watching Hannibal chop ginger for their dinner.

The ginger root sits half-chopped in front of Hannibal when Will hangs up, turning back around to face him, and Hannibal is not bothering to hide his curious stare. Before Will can decide what to tell him, what to explain, Hannibal speaks, his voice even. “Your mother has died.”

“Yes,” Will says on an exhale, deciding letting Hannibal control this is easiest.

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, placing his knife carefully on the cutting board in front of him. He doesn’t speak for another few seconds. “I thought you said your mother died when you were young? That you never knew her?”

“I said I didn’t know her,” Will says defensively, his voice near to a mumble. “I didn’t say she died.” Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, and so Will continues rather than letting it all drag out longer than he has to. “She left when I was six - just turned six. I don’t remember anything about her, just… a few images.” He thinks about a yellow dress he knows she had, the flash of swimming beside her in the stream that’d been near the house they all lived in, some fleeting picture of the three of them - Will, mother, and father - all around a dinner table. Will turns his gaze from the knife in front of Hannibal to his eyes. “I told you the idea of family is alien to me, and it is. Just as much as the idea of Laurie Eaves as my mother is.”

“But now she’s died,” Hannibal states, and Will really, _really_ wishes he’d just gone home tonight, where only his dogs could have eavesdropped on any phone calls.

“She’s died and I’m in her will. I assume she’s left me a teddy bear or a baseball bat, since she’d only remember me as a toddler.” Will can’t keep the note of bitterness out of his voice, and he winces internally. He doesn’t want to do this in front of anyone, least of all Hannibal. He’s not sure which upsets him more, his psychiatrist seeing what must be a fucking _feast_ of future appointment topics, his friend seeing him looking so weak, or his maybe… more than a friend seeing…. any of this. 

As if he can tell Will is more upset about Hannibal observing him than he is about the woman’s death - and he can, Will is sure of it - Hannibal picks up the knife again, turning his attention back to the ginger. “And so what happens with her will?” he asks, not lifting his head but pointedly ignoring Will’s additional comment. Will is grateful.

“I - I’m not sure,” Will answers, but his mind is already miles away, back in Wolf Trap with his dogs, thinking about this phone call and what it means. He stands without looking at Hannibal and is heading towards the hallway before he’s sure he fully means to. “I have to go,” he manages, watching Hannibal put down the knife again out of the corner of his eyes. “I - I have to go sort this out, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” He grabs his jacket from a chair in the hall, hurries to the front door without giving time for Hannibal to try to stop him - and Will doesn’t look back to see if he did.

—

After reading some emails and receiving another phone call, Will has come to the frustrating realization that the easiest way to get this all done - the _fastest_ way to get this all finished - will involve a trip to see his mother’s lawyer in person, in his office in Savanna, Georgia. He’d rather forget the whole thing, ignore whatever his mother left for him, but apparently even that involves signing all sorts of papers, and Will’s not above admitting that there’s a part of him that _wants_ to go, that wants to see what the woman who gave birth to him did for the last 30 years, other than ignore his existence. 

He makes a call to Jack that thankfully goes directly to voice mail, and leaves a message explaining that he’ll be gone a few days for a family emergency. He knows the message will be more confusing to Jack than enlightening, since Will has always given the impression that he doesn’t have any family that isn’t canine, but Will adds this to the pile of explaining he knows he’ll have to do in a few days’ time anyway, when he’s back from his impromptu trip and sees Hannibal - and now Jack - again.

A quick email to Alana takes care of his dogs and, hopefully, his classes, and so Will is resigned to booking his flights - traveling to Georgia tomorrow, Tuesday, to return by Thursday evening. He doesn’t want to spend any more time on this than he has to.

Hannibal calls while Will is typing in his credit card information, but he ignores it. After he’s received the confirmation of his tickets by email a few minutes later, he sends a text to Hannibal, trying to pretend he isn’t affected by a pang of guilt for not calling and explaining himself better.

_Sorry for running out on you, I’m fine, I just hate dealing with lawyers and all of this. I have to go see this guy in person, in Savanna Georgia so I’ll be gone until Thursday. I probably won’t make my appointment that night._

Will sends the text, but doesn’t put his phone down. Whatever he has with Hannibal is still new, and Will’s unsure what tone their communications should take.

 _Sorry about dinner,_ he types a second later. He’s just sent it when his phone vibrates with a series of messages from Hannibal.

_I’ll mark the cancellation._  
_Sorry to hear about the death, though possibly more sorry you’ll have to deal with lawyers._  
_Do not worry about dinner, there will be others._  
_Please, Will, do not hesitate to call me if I can be of any help. Perhaps we could move your usual appointment to Friday? Or reschedule our dinner for then?_

Will chews at his lip, waiting for a few seconds after the last message to make sure Hannibal is finished. He rereads the texts, feeling like a teenager, but noting that all of them sounded completely professional yet friendly. No one looking at Will’s phone would know that he’d been fucking Hannibal into the mattress almost daily for weeks now.

 _Dinner on Friday sounds good,_ Will replies after a long moment. He’s just hit send when he worries Hannibal will think his forwardness is rude, so he quickly sends a follow-up: _If you don’t mind cooking for me yet again, of course._

He’s just placed his phone beside his computer and stood up, determined to get packed and ready and put his phone - and Hannibal - out of his mind, when a buzz alerts him to Hannibal’s rapid response.

_For you? Never._  
_Please know that you can call me at any time, if you think talking would be of help._  
_I look forward to dinner on Friday. And perhaps some mimosas with breakfast on Saturday?_

Will can’t help the grin on his face after reading the last message, but doesn’t reply, turning his attention to packing and preparing for the trip he has to survive before he can think about meals and nights with Hannibal.

—

Will doesn’t call Hannibal. He doesn’t want to talk. 

On Friday morning, he sends a quick message but doesn’t look to see if he gets a reply.

_I’m still out of state. Sorry about dinner. And breakfast._

—

It’s the following Tuesday afternoon, almost exactly a full week after his initial flight to Georgia, that Will makes it back to Dulles Airport, pays the extravagant parking fee, and drives back to Wolf Trap. Greeting his dogs is the first time Will remembers smiling in more than a week.

He knows there are messages - voice and text - from Hannibal and Jack, but he hasn’t had the energy to check his phone in days. He’d sent an email to Jack before the weekend, explaining that he wouldn’t be back at work as soon as he’d planned, at the same time that he’d made sure Alana didn’t mind feeding his dogs for a few extra days. He doesn’t intend on dealing with however many angry messages Jack has left him until at least tomorrow.

He hasn’t spoken to Hannibal all week, besides his quick text on Friday, and Will can tell he’s fucking this up, maybe fucking something _good_ up, but he pours himself a few fingers of whiskey and knocks them back instead of looking at the messages. He refills his glass twice more before taking a long shower, then curls up with the dogs and a blanket on the floor beside his bed, more whiskey beside him. He falls asleep after finishing his glass.

—

The dogs wake him up a few hours later, three of them, whimpering and pawing at him. Will’s covered in sweat and shaking. He shushes the dogs, but judging by how upset they are, he can only imagine the sounds he must have been making. He can’t remember the details of any nightmares, but his head hurts and he feels nauseous enough that he decides against trying to eat anything.

His phone is on the bed, laying where he threw it when he first got home, and he hears it ringing twice - once when he feeds the dogs and again while he’s outside with them, sitting on his steps and throwing an old tennis ball to whichever one of them can get to it first. 

He knows it’s Hannibal because Jack would be calling more often if there was a case, and Alana always emails at least ten times before she ever calls. He doesn’t answer.

This is the longest he’s gone without speaking to Hannibal since… since they’d met, and certainly since they’d become friends. Become… god, Will can’t even _begin_ to know what he should call them. He still feels like ‘friend’ is an alien title to him, the thought of sharing something beyond that with anyone, especially with _Hannibal,_ is frightening.

He knows, however, that he needs it to end, whatever _it_ is.

Will isn’t good at this. He isn’t good at being sociable in general, he usually doesn’t even _like_ it, but it’s worse when sociable becomes physical. Hannibal had initiated this, of course, had leaned over his kitchen counter one night after a dinner, dessert, and possibly too much wine and kissed him - and Will had _liked_ that. He hadn’t been with anyone in years, hadn’t been with a guy in even longer, and Will couldn’t believe that someone like Hannibal - someone so… _refined_ , so impressive, someone with his shit together, to say the least - would ever want to kiss him, Will Graham, human disaster. Even that first night, though, Will had shied away when the kiss got heavier. His sexual history was dismal, dire, and Will didn’t want Hannibal to be yet another person who Will had fucked and immediately alienated.

It’d only taken one more dinner, however, just a few days later. Will couldn’t resist the invitation, and this time they didn’t even make it to dessert until Will was pushing Hannibal against the wall, slipping down to his knees and taking him in his mouth. When Hannibal had finished and tried to reciprocate, Will had stopped him, followed him upstairs to bed and fucked him instead.

The only reason it had even lasted as long as it had, that Will hadn’t fucked it up yet, was that he barely let Hannibal touch him. This was what he did, because _that_ was always the final straw, what aways fucked it up, and Will knows it’s only a matter of time until Hannibal gets frustrated. Hannibal will get sick of Will’s games and either end it there, or - worse - insist on trying something else in bed, something that _doesn’t_ involve Will sucking his cock or fucking him from behind, and Will can’t do it. Won’t do it. 

Will pours another glass of whiskey and tries not to think about it. Any of it. Because what had been done that weekend was done and that finished it all off, didn’t it? It’s no longer a slow countdown to the inevitable moment that Hannibal doesn’t want to deal with Will anymore, when his idiosyncrasies and tics become more annoying and distasteful than interesting. Now it’s just a matter of when Will informs Hannibal of his fuck up, and this was easier. This was neater.

Will hadn’t slept much while traveling, even less than normal, and his nap on the floor earlier hadn’t done much to make him less tired, only made him kind of generally sore. He feels hot, almost feverish thanks to the whiskey and no food, and the headache he’s had for weeks is back. He takes an aspirin, even though he knows he shouldn’t while drinking, and sends a short email to Alana thanking her and informing her that he’s home, before crawling into bed.

Before he does, however, he moves his phone into the kitchen, placing it on the counter without looking at it. He ignores the part of him that says he’s sabotaging himself because - Jesus, hadn’t he already made sure that happened?

—

Mercifully, Will manages to sleep through the entire night, and when he wakes up he pretends it’s a normal day off. He feeds the dogs, checks his email (Jack hasn’t yet gotten to the point where his subjects come in all capital letters, which is a good sign), and takes a long walk, partly to clear his mind and partly to tire the dogs out.

The dogs are lounging in their beds, or asleep beside them, and Will is working on a powerpoint for a lecture he hasn’t thought about in a week - already onto his second glass of whiskey - when there’s a knock on the door.

Will knows it’s Hannibal - of course he does, because he has enough self-awareness to admit that if he’d actually wanted to continue avoiding Hannibal, he wouldn’t have let Alana know he was back. He takes a fortifying sip from his glass before standing up and walking to the door. He already feels like a jerk.

“Will,” Hannibal says, looking him over when the door is opened. “So you are home.” His face is unreadable, and Will can’t tell from his tone if he’s already angry with him or if that is yet to come. “Has something happened to your phone?”

Will shakes his head, stepping aside so Hannibal can come in. He watches Hannibal’s face as he notes Will’s whiskey glass, beside his open laptop where Will was working. He doesn’t say anything, but Will knows the bottle next to them makes it clear that this is not Will’s first glass of the day, despite it just turning five o’clock.

“No,” he says finally, answering Hannibal. “Sorry, I haven’t been checking my phone since I got back.”

Will wasn’t expecting how glad he is to see Hannibal, how he wants nothing more than to lean into him and let Hannibal kiss him. Even with all the confusion of the past few weeks, and with Hannibal’s frustrating ability to understand too much of Will at times and not enough at others, he’s become Will’s anchor, his oar, and there’s a large part of Will that hates himself for ruining the one good thing he has, even though he _knows_ it was only a matter of time anyway.

Will watches Hannibal greet the dogs, all of whom have awakened at the sound and smell of him and are happy to see the friend who usually brings them treats. For the first time, Will wonders if Hannibal feels at all unsure about their status, like he does constantly. Hannibal always gives the impression of complete control, of having everything settled and in the places he likes, while Will always feels like he’s only just managing to keep his head above water - but maybe Will has been giving him to much credit.

“Are you feeling alright, Will?” Hannibal asks, and Will realizes he was staring at him. He jerks his head away, back to the dogs. “You look flushed,” Hannibal continues, sounding entirely like his usual self, as if Will hadn’t just basically disappeared for a week. “Are you feeling ill?”

“Yeah - I mean, no, I’m not feeling sick, I’m okay. Just the usual headache.” Will grimaces and takes a step back. He picks up his whiskey and finishes what’s left, then hates himself for being so obvious. “Do you want a drink?” he asks into his glass. 

“Sure. I’m finished with my appointments until tomorrow afternoon, and a drink sounds lovely.”

Will turns to grab a glass from the kitchen and the dogs follow him, thinking they’re going to get some food. When he returns to the main room - the dogs still following optimistically - Hannibal is studying Will’s fishing lures, his back to him. Will turns to the side table where his laptop and drink are sitting, and pours a few fingers of whiskey into Hannibal’s glass. When he looks up, Hannibal’s turned back, watching him.

Will doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t have any idea what to say, and so he doesn’t think. He puts Hannibal’ s full glass down next to his empty one and moves, stepping towards Hannibal and reaching for him, at the same time that Hannibal takes a step closer to him.

Their lips meet and Will melts into it, stepping closer still until he’s pressed fully against Hannibal. He opens his mouth when Hannibal drags his tongue across his bottom lip, and Will would really rather keep doing this than what he knows is going to happen. 

It’s only a minute later, though, that Hannibal pulls back slightly. Will doesn’t open his eyes, instead resting his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and keeping pressed against him.

“I thought you’d spent your time away thinking better of all this,” Hannibal says, bringing a hand to rest on Will’s hip. Will both hates and loves that Hannibal can act so possessively towards him, so physically affectionate, naturally, without thinking. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

Instead of answering, because Will isn’t stupid, he raises his head, kissing Hannibal again. Will’s tempted to just keep going like this, ignoring everything and letting whatever’s between them continue. But he knows it’s all a matter of time, because he’s _not_ stupid, and he isn’t willing to let Hannibal know everything. He’d rather stop all of this first, ruin all of this instead of ruining everything.

And so when Hannibal shifts slightly and Will can feel his growing erection against his leg, he slips a hand between them, not breaking the kiss. He reaches for Hannibal’s belt, knowing that he’ll stop him.

Will’s not surprised, because he never is, when Hannibal pulls away, dislodging Will’s hand but keeping his own gentle hold on Will’s hip. He watches Will for a moment, but Will keeps his gaze locked on Hannibal’s shoulder.

Will braces himself for Hannibal’s inevitable questions - because for all that Will knows or thinks of Hannibal, he knows Hannibal is anything but oblivious, and Will is being obvious. He takes a slow breath in, waiting, but Hannibal says nothing. Instead, he brings his hand up, gently tracing Will’s cheek before stilling, cradling Will’s face and Will fights to not lean into it because fuck, he hates Hannibal right now, for not doing this the way he wants it done, for not _getting it over with_ , but Will hates himself way, way more.

When it becomes obvious Hannibal is content with the silence, Will breaks it. “Would you say we’re in a relationship?” he asks, without stepping back from Hannibal’s hands or looking up from his shoulder.

“We’re in several relationship,” Hannibal answers, his thumb rubbing gently along the underside of Will’s chin. “We’re friends. We’re occasionally co-workers, since I’ve been consulting with the FBI. We’re —“

“You know what I mean,” Will interrupts, his voice only a mumble.

“I am enjoying our time together,” Hannibal says, after a second, every word unhurried and measured. “I’m enjoying you. I’d like to continue, however you want to call it, and I hoped you would too.” His hands don’t move, but he uses the one on Will’s jawline to bring his face up slightly, trying to make eye contact. Will allows the movement but doesn’t meet his stare. “I’m a little worried after this week,” Hannibal admits. “But yes. I would like to say we’re in a relationship.”

And this is the answer Will wanted, of course - it’s the answer he would have liked a week ago, truthfully, but it’s the answer he _wanted_ now because he was only asking for one reason. He wants Hannibal to hate him and this is the easiest way he knows to make that happen.

Will still doesn’t meet his gaze. He looks back at Hannibal’s shoulder, concentrating on the pattern of his jacket, but speaks clearly. “I cheated on you.”

The hand that’s still resting on his face, still holding his jaw, jerks every so slightly. Will feels the motion and knows it was small enough that anyone else, anyone watching, wouldn’t have seen it. When there is silence, still, for a few seconds, Will can’t keep his eyes from flicking to Hannibal’s face, quickly, before concentrating back on his shoulder. 

“I fucked someone else,” Will says harshly, wanting it all spelled out when Hannibal doesn’t move, doesn’t reply quickly enough.

“Did you now,” Hannibal finally says - he doesn’t ask, it’s not a question. His voice is smooth, low, as though they’re talking about if Will slept on the flight, how his hotel was, anything else.

“Sorry,” Will adds, his voice still harsh and wholly unrepentant. He hasn’t gotten the response he expected, and he _wants_ it. “I _slept with_ someone else. I know you hate when I speak coarsely.” His tone is mocking, but he is still concentrated solely on Hannibal’s shoulder, unable to face him. Hannibal hasn’t moved either of his hands, the one on his face or the one still holding gently onto Will’s hip.

“Who?” There is still no anger in Hannibal’s voice. The question seems genuine, if anything, and the only thing that surprises Will more than his continued soft, smooth tone is that Hannibal rubs his thumb along Will’s cheek as he asks it.

“Why?” Will finally looks up, meets Hannibal’s gaze. Beyond that, he doesn’t move. “You know every bit of white trash in small-town Louisiana, you’re gonna know the guy?”

“Louisiana?” A cold wave goes through Will as he realizes his mistake. “I thought your mother’s estate was being settled in Georgia.”

Will drops his eyes, staring at the wall behind Hannibal. He releases a breath in what’s almost a laugh. “Part of my inheritance was a car. _Most_ of my inheritance was a car. I… I took a road trip.”

“To Louisiana?” Despite his focus elsewhere, Will can feel Hannibal studying him. He’s close enough to feel his breath against his lips and Will may not have been in many relationships, still doesn’t know if that’s really what they’ve been doing but - fuck, Will’s not a fucking _idiot_ , okay, he knows this isn’t how this goes, that this isn’t what’s supposed to be happening. He wants to take a step back, wants to remove himself from where Hannibal has him tangled, but he doesn’t. He can’t, it’s all he can do to keep himself still, to keep from shaking against Hannibal’s hands.

“I told you I fucked someone else, and this is what you focus on? Where I was? Where I drove a shitty car? That’s what you care about?” 

“I care,” Hannibal says, still sound unruffled and damn him, _damn him,_ “that you’re still letting me hold you while you tell me all about this… fucking.”

And that breaks it, that’s what allows Will to jerk his head away, dislodging Hannibal’s connection. He takes a step back, feels Hannibal’s hold on his hip drop. He looks down at their legs, now almost three feet apart, and says nothing.

“So you drove - what, nine hours? - in your inherited car?” Hannibal asks, his only reaction to Will’s movement.

“Eight,” Will can’t help but mutter.

“And where is this car now?”

Will swallows, feels his hands shake despite his best efforts. “….crashed it,” he tries to say, choking on the first word. “I crashed it,” he repeats, more insistent and steady.

Will’s gaze is still on the floor, but he swears he can see Hannibal’s eyebrows raise as they do when he’s gotten new information he considers interesting, worthy of his time, and Will clenches his jaw, annoyed that he’d told Hannibal that much. This was supposed to be done by now, or at least at a much angrier point by now, and _none of this is what Will is supposed to be saying_. He raises his head, once again meeting Hannibal straight on, and tries to get control of the conversation back.

“I didn’t want it,” he says, as if it’s that simple. It is, he thinks. “I didn’t want it and it was mine and I crashed it.”

“And was this before or after you cheated on me?” Hannibal sounds almost… _amused_ and that’s not right at all. Will tries to take a deep breath but only manages a half one, and worse he knows Hannibal can hear and see his suffering, how hard he’s _trying._

“I was away for a week without talking to you, I come back without letting you know, and I’m telling you that I _fucked another man._ No, actually, that I let him _fuck me._ ” Will watches Hannibal, willing his hands and voice steady while he tries to make it all clearer. “I let him fuck me,” he repeats. “I let him come in me. I didn’t use protection, and I let him come in me. I haven’t even let you fuck me, and I’m _telling_ you I let someone else do it.” He breathes quickly, two breaths as deep as he can get them, and feels his hands opening and closing into tight fists at his sides.

“Did you go to the funeral?”

Anger pulses through Will. “Why?” he snaps, angry at himself for losing his temper when Hannibal is _so damn calm_. “This is not a therapy session, _Doctor_ Lecter, you don’t get to direct this conversation.”

“Will,” Hannibal says, and his voice is calm and even in comparison to Will’s. Hannibal takes a step closer as Will watches, stopping when he is still another step from him. “Do you want me to go?” He pauses expectantly for a few seconds and Will _knows_ what he should be saying, but doesn’t answer quickly enough. “I can leave now,” Hannibal continues, “or we can finish talking and I can go then.”

Will bites at his lip and still doesn’t answer. Hannibal’s tone and slow movement had worked, had calmed him down slightly, and Will knows that’s why Hannibal had spoken and moved at all. Still, though, he really doesn’t want Hannibal to leave - but he also does, more than anything. He takes another step back, two, until his legs are against the bed behind him, but stays standing. “I didn’t go to the funeral,” he says eventually, avoiding Hannibal’s other questions entirely. Will bites his lip again until he can taste blood and he concentrates on that as he continues. “It was over when I got there… she died a few weeks ago, from cancer, it just took this long to settle everything, I guess.”

“In Georgia,” Hannibal clarifies, not asking.

“Yes.”

“And she left you a car.”

“A car and some money - not much.” Will exhales a laugh, soaked in bitterness. There’s a long pause before he says, softer, “And a note.”

Hannibal doesn’t take what Will thinks of as obvious bait, but continues repeating what Will knows he already knows. “And instead of coming back, once you had the car and the money and the note, you drove to Louisiana and cheated on me?”

Spelled out like that, spoken so clearly, it’s so _obvious_ , all of it is so clearly a ploy, the same as a teenager cutting lines into their arms so someone will notice, and Will feels cheap and stupid. “I went to see my dad,” he confesses quietly, and Will isn’t sure if he does it because he _is_ that teenager and wants Hannibal to know, to _notice_ , or because he thinks that makes it less cheap, somehow, all of it. Will is very aware that he is off-script, that he doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, and he sinks down onto the bed behind him, his head on his hands and arms on his knees.

“Were you hurt?” Hannibal asks, and - _Jesus_ , he still sounds like he cares, like he’s _concerned._ Will whips his head up, certain that he knows, that Hannibal’s asking - but when Will studies his face for a second, he’s assured that Hannibal’s only asking about the crash, about the stupid car, and Will lowers his head again, not sure if the rush of adrenaline he feels is related to relief or disappointment.

“No,” Will answers, his head in his hands again. “It wasn’t… uh, it wasn’t much of a crash.”

“Good,” Hannibal says, breathing out as if he had been worried. “Still,” he continues after a moment. “Quite a dramatic rejection of the first gift your mother has given you in years.” Will recognizes Hannibal’s tone as the one he has during their appointments, his psychiatrist voice, and Will can’t even bring himself to resent it. He feels like that teenager again, still unsure of what he’s doing.

“I…” Will is still realizing how this all sounds, how articulating all of this out loud makes it all so fucking _obvious_ , and so, without thinking further, Will throws it all out at Hannibal. Let him see what a fucking cliché Will really is when he’s not trying, when he’s honest. “I drove it into a tree. The tree outside my father’s house - his trailer,” he amends with another breath of air that could be a bitter laugh.

“I see,” Hannibal says and that is so the typical psychiatrist phase that Will is suddenly worried he’s mocking him. Will looks up and meets Hannibal’s eyes again, but doesn’t see any humor there.

“I’m so easy to psychoanalyze, huh?” Will says, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck to rub at the dull pain he can feel rising there, hurting his already aching head. “So cliché, right?”

“Not at all.” Hannibal moves closer. “May I?” he asks, motioning to the bed beside Will. He nods, his jaw tight and Hannibal sits behind him - close, but not so close that they’re touching. “Although I should admit I find it easier to psychoanalyze this than to go deeper into what you first told me, for fear of further upsetting you."

“Upsetting _me_ ,” Will repeats, incredulously. He closes his eyes, screws them up tightly, biting at his bottom lip again. He can’t understand - part of him wants to apologize, but he doesn’t because _that’s not why this is all happening_ and Will remembers what it is he’s doing again, what he’s _meant_ to be doing, and _why._ “I - he,” Will starts. He stops, keeping his eyes tightly closed and reaches to unbutton his shirt. It’s an old flannel button down, even older than the ones he usually wears, and he’s sure Hannibal has not failed to notice this. He undoes a button, than two more. His eyes are still closed - he doesn’t want to see what he knows Hannibal is about to. 

Will pulls the top of the shirt aside to reveal his right shoulder, and tries to keep his breathing steady. 

He has three bruises, all deep purples and yellows and blue - one on the near side of his clavicle, towards his neck, one down an inch or so below it, and the last, the worst one, closer to his nipple. The skin is bruised in a way that makes the origin obvious - there is no question what they are, how he got them. If Will were a corpse, if Will was working on his own crime scene, he wouldn’t need any special abilities to picture what had gone on. The bruises are clearly bites, suck marks, fucking _hickies_ , and they scream of someone deriving sexual pleasure.

“Does this make it easier to discuss?” Will says and he can’t control the bitter tone to his voice. “Make it harder to ignore, or - or to talk around, at least?”

Will keeps his shirt pushed aside, his body tilted toward Hannibal, though his eyes are on the wall behind him. He feels the heat of Hannibal’s gaze on his chest, and he imagines his stare moving from one bruise to another to the last.

“These are not from the crash,” Hannibal states the obvious, and again his voice is almost light and Will doesn’t understand because _how is he still here._

“No,” Will says on an exhale, shaking his head sightly. He lets his hand fall, his shirt covering some of the marks again but no longer hiding them entirely

“Then who did this to you?” Hannibal’s voice is gentle and so are his movements as he brings a hand up to push the shirt aside again, laying his fingers gently on the bruise nearest Will’s neck.

Will sneaks a furtive glance at Hannibal’s face, still not meeting his eyes. “You say that like this was done _to me,_ ” he says, jerking away from Hannibal’s hand. “This was consensual.” He yanks his body back to face forward, removing Hannibal’s hold on him again. “I did this - I cheated on you, I was a part of this,” he says firmly.

“Were you?” Will can feel Hannibal’s gaze on him again, this time studying his face, and Will stares resolutely ahead. “Did you leave marks like this too? Or just… him?” he asks, as if he’s actually curious.

And suddenly Will feels like he’s been plunged into a pool of ice water, a shock of coldness touching all his insides all at once, and he’s not sure what does it - his question, or his pause before ‘him’, or what - but Will _hates_ Hannibal because he _knows_ , he _must_ fucking know, and Will _fucking_ hates him. He exhales, his breath catching, and tries to to stand up, shaking, but Hannibal moves quickly and places a gentle hand on his biceps - not keeping him there, just touching - and Will stops.

“You know,” he says after a moment, his voice shuddering. They’ve switched roles now and Will is the one asking a question he already know the answer to. His voice is dull and sounds like it could rip his throat, when he says, “You know and you want to hear me say it.” 

Hannibal watches him and says nothing, denies nothing.

Will pulls his arm away but remains sitting, still just a few inches from Hannibal on the bed. He takes a shaky breath in and once again tries to still his hands and body, to stop their shaking.

“I’m not a child,” he says at last. “What I - what we - I,” he pauses, closes his eyes for a long second. “I’m an adult and whatever I do is my own decision.” He opens his eyes, looking straight ahead but not moving.

Hannibal is still silent, though Will knows he is watching him intently. 

He’s lost whatever fight he had to stay still, and now his entire frame is shaking, nearly enough that Will is scared he'll move the whole bed. He bites his lip, hard, before speaking, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “It’s not - I went to _him_ ,” he says emphatically because this did not _happen_ to him and if Hannibal knows nothing, he has to know that.

“To your father,” Hannibal says quietly. Will freezes, but his body continues shaking as if he has no control over it. He can’t answer. When he tries to open his mouth, his body won’t respond.

“You went to see your father,” Hannibal continues after a moment, when there’s still silence, and he sounds so _normal_ , like they’re talking about anything else, like this isn’t Will’s worst fucking nightmare.

Will jerks his head down in the semblance of a nod, even though it’s clear that Hannibal doesn’t need his confirmation, that Hannibal already knows what they’ve been talking about, who Will was with, and that he’s known since this started, and fuck, suddenly Will is not just scared, not just ashamed - he is _angry._

“And this is how you cheated on me?” Hannibal asks, but Will can only faintly hear him, can only concentrate on the sound of blood rushing through his ears.

Will isn’t sure if his eyes close, but he thinks it’s a minute later when he feels Hannibal’s hands on his face, taking his chin and grasping it gently, moving him so that Will has to face him. Will tries to concentrate but his vision is blotchy, with growing clouds of white static on the edges.

“Will,” Hannibal is saying, with the tone of someone repeating himself. “Will, are you with me?”

Will meets his eyes and his hearing and vision struggle to clear, the loud sound of blood in his ears the last to fade away. He nods after a minute or two, another jerky movement, and Hannibal drops his hands again.

“This isn’t,” Will takes a breath, shame burning at him as he tries to speak again. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be going,” he admits, feeling weak as soon as he says it, the fury he’d felt a few minutes ago already fading, turning into shame, into… fuck, Will is just _tired._

Hannibal is still watching him and he tilts his head. “No?”

“Stop it,” Will’s voice is firmer, anger rising in him again. “You know. You _knew_. Stop. Stop doing this.”

Will watches a brief look of confusion pass across Hannibal’s face, and he might have been convinced, but he’s spent weeks watching Hannibal, studying him while Hannibal examined him, and he knows that Hannibal doesn’t let anything show that isn’t orchestrated and what he wants others to see.

Will never wanted him to know this, didn’t want anyone to know it, but Will is speaking, suddenly, before he realizes it, is already several words in before his brain catches up, and by then it’s too late. “My mom left me a note and she - she left when I was six - she abandoned us, couldn’t be fucked to stay with me and my dad, and I never knew, I mean - I could do the math, but wasn’t sure, I,” Will gasps, his lungs all at once empty of oxygen, and too late Hannibal places a warm hand on his arm, a gesture of comfort, and opens his mouth to stop him, but Will doesn’t want that, not anymore. “No,” he says, shaking Hannibal off before more words are spewing from his mouth, falling like he can’t control them. “She left and - it was an _apology_ ,” he says, as if the word burns his tongue. “The note, and - and the shitty car.” Will laughs, but it sounds more like he’s in pain than amused.

He falls into himself, curling protectively around his stomach, hunching his shoulders and leaning over his knees. He doesn’t stop talking, though his voice is already less forceful than it was a minute before. “I was six,” he repeats, his voice getting duller, softer. “I was six when he started - when he,” he stops, tries to take another breath but can’t get enough air and he’s still shaking and his face is wet with sweat and _fuck_ , Will just wants this over, wants this _out._

Struggling to take another breath, he sits up straighter and looks at Hannibal, whose face is a blank mask, a nonjudgemental stare that Will recognizes from therapy. Will is still shaking, working hard to even stay upright, but he speaks with new force. “I was six when my dad moles - when he raped me, fucked me.” He takes a quick breath that sounds more like a series of gasps. “I was six when he _started_ and my mom was twenty-two and she knew, she fucking knew.” His hands come up to cover his face, and Will barely recognizes them, his own hands seeming like they don’t belong to him. “And so, so she,” his voice has been raising in pitch and suddenly it’s all Will can do to not collapse, to breath, to keep from vomiting. He can’t finish.

Will feels Hannibal’s arms envelope him, feels him pulls him over gently until Will gives in and goes limp, leaning against Hannibal’s chest. He’s so tired that his entire body feels impossibly heavy and he couldn’t move, couldn’t resist Hannibal if he wanted to - and he doesn’t. He is still struggling to breathe but drops one hand from his face to get a hold of Hannibal’s jacket and he grabs it, pulls at it. He feels Hannibal lean forward, lean against the back of Will’s neck, and he can feel his lips move as he whispers to him softly, “Shh. Will, shh.”

“No,” Will says, or tries, but he’s not sure he’s getting any sound out. He stays close to Hannibal, stays limp, and lets himself fall deeper against him. It is a full minute later, maybe longer, until Will can speak again, can take enough air into his lungs that he can be heard. 

“I was six and my mom knew and so - and so she left.” He feels the burn of whiskey and acid, all that’s in his stomach, in his throat, and he closes his mouth tightly, fighting to keep from vomiting. His eyes follow shut a moment later, and he closes them tightly, clenching his teeth as he feels Hannibal’s hand on his head, his fingers running through his hair.

Will isn’t sure how long it is before he can hear Hannibal again, can understand his quiet litany of Will’s name and almost meaningless words. “Will, shh, Will, my dear Will.” Will clutches at Hannibal’s jacket more tightly, pressing into him, his eyes still closed. He takes another stuttering breath and listens to Hannibal’s deep voice and rhythmic accent.

When he thinks he can talk again, can open his mouth without being sick, he keeps going, speaking quickly and struggling to make sense. “I thought that he - there are studies that show there are higher rates of - of - that kids, boys, raised by a father alone are more likely to - that the, the… _affection_ can be turned onto the child,” he’s stuttering and repeating himself, but he _knows_ this and he’s spent years learning it so he could properly understand and compartmentalize what happened to him, and he needs Hannibal to know that. “But…” he laughs, almost, feeling sick again. “I guess I should have spent more time looking at the studies about spouses leaving because their husbands started fucking their kid, huh?”

“Will, shh.” Hannibal’s hands are carding through his hair and Will tries to concentrate on that, on that and breathing.

But he can’t, he can’t stop _talking._ He’s crying in earnest now, and a rush of self-loathing courses through him even as he keeps going. “She gave me a fucking _car!_ A fucking… like that would _matter,_ like that’s an apology. That and a couple thousand for - and what did I do?” Will’s voice takes on a new edge. “I used what she gave me to run back to _daddy,_ ” he says the word like it contains venom, like it could physically burn him. “I used the money to stock up on whiskey on the way to make sure I would have the liquid courage I needed when I got there.”

Will laughs, still crying, still leaning into Hannibal’s embrace. “Which I didn’t. I was…” He trails off and when he speaks again the laughter is gone from his tone, though his voice is still thick with tears. “I was going to kill him,” he says rushed but softer. “He’s a drunk, I would have made it look like an accident and no one would have ever though to question it, no one would have cared.”

He pauses, expecting Hannibal to have some response to this. He’s just confessed to planning an actual _murder_ and this is everything Will’s told Hannibal he’s scared of, everything all the people who whisper about Will at crime scenes have expected for years, and Will’s pretty sure that Hannibal _has_ to say something here, has to make some comment about mentioning this to Jack or _something_ , but Hannibal is still quiet and Will is grateful.

After a few breaths, Will keep going, still unable to stop himself - after years of guarding this so _carefully_ from everyone, he can’t stop from talking, explaining now. “I didn’t though - I mean, I couldn’t. But… he was drunk, already, when I got there - much more than me - and he was talking and god,” Will’s voice breaks and he struggles to keep going. “He loves me, he _fucking_ loves me, can you believe it? He still does, or he thinks he does, he talked about how he’s been following my career and I could - I could _feel_ it, I could _feel_ how much he loves me and it’s sick, it’s really… it’s sick.” Tears close his throat and Will can’t talk anymore. He sits and shakes and cries in Hannibal’s hold and tries to breath.

“It’s been fifteen goddamn years since he saw me,” he manages out, struggling to speak at all. “And he started fucking me when I was a little kid because his wife wouldn’t blow him anymore but I - he loves me, and - I…” he can’t breath, can’t get another word out, as his voice dissolves into tears and gasping breaths.

“Shh,” Hannibal is still saying, still holding him and speaking into his neck, petting his hair.

“M’sorry,” Will gasps, unsure if Hannibal can even understand him.

“No, shh. Try to take a deep breath, Will.”

Will tries, and then tries again, and when he can finally breath again, he still can’t stop and it’s just another reason to hate himself. “I could kill him - I wanted to fucking kill him. I thought he - he should be the one - and, and he got close enough and I thought it would - but - he, he held me and he kissed me and… M’sorry,” he says, for everything he’s saying, that he’s still talking at all, that he can’t stop fucking sobbing into Hannibal’s jacket.

Hannibal doesn’t let Will go, but adjusts them both until they can lay back on the bed, slipping off his shoes and keeping Will against his chest. Will doesn’t fight, but he knows he should warn Hannibal - Will’s never stayed over after they’ve had sex and Will should tell him about his nightmares and how he sweats and, fuck, Hannibal’s still fully dressed, and if Will isn’t going to get back up he needs to take the dogs out - but Hannibal is still running his fingers through Will’s hair and Will closes his eyes and tries to stop crying, tries to take deep breaths.

They lay like that for - Will doesn’t know how long. He keeps his eyes closed but doesn’t fall asleep, concentrating on breathing until he slowly relaxes and he sinks further into Hannibal, until he can feel his heart rate steadying, returning slowly to his normal rhythm. 

“This is his shirt,” Will says after what feels like an hour of silence, the only noise the comforting sighs and soft snuffles of his dogs, asleep on the floor below them. His voice sounds hoarse from talking, from crying. “Sick, huh? I’m wearing his fucking shirt.”

Hannibal doesn’t say anything for a moment and Will would wander if he’d fallen asleep except Hannibal is still moving his hand, still softly carding through Will’s hair. Will wonders if he’s losing time, if time is really moving as slowly as he’s taking it in, if this is his new way of losing cognizance. 

Hannibal speaks a second later, at the same time lightly grasping Will’s shoulders and helping him to sit up on his bed. “Let’s get this off you, then.”

Will follows Hannibal’s hands without meaning to, without the energy to fight back or to want to. He raises a hand to clumsily undo one of the remaining buttons, but his sluggish movement isn’t fast enough. Hannibal lets go of one of his shoulders, keeping his hold on the other one to make sure Will stays upright, and grabs his shirt. With a fast motion, he jerks the fabric and rips the remaining buttons open. Will turns his eyes towards Hannibal, but otherwise doesn’t react.

“Destroying it, like you did your mother’s car, would be a suitable rejection. What do you think, Will?” Hannibal speaks almost clinically, as if they were sitting across from each other in his office. He helps Will get the shirt off one shoulder, his other hand still mostly holding Will up. “Something dramatic, to match the rejection of the car, perhaps?”

Will makes a noise that could be an attempt at a laugh or just a forceful exhalation, as Hannibal switches hands and helps him out of the remaining sleeve, until the shirt is laying around Will’s waist where he’s sat on the bed. Hannibal shifts him immediately, pulling Will on top of him at the same time as he stretches out fully, so that Will is forced to move one leg over him, straddling Hannibal. Will has enough energy now to not need Hannibal’s hands to keep him upright, but still feels light-headed.

“And these,” Hannibal continues once Will is placed where he wants him, turning his attention to the marks across Will’s chest. “What should we do about these?”

Will is still, watching him, silent. He’s very aware not only of how the marks appear - god, you can see fucking _teethmarks_ on the worst one - but also of his sweaty hair curled all over the place, his swollen eyes, his red cheeks. He can read several ways this could be going and he’s not sure which one he wants most. Or least.

Hannibal brings his hand up, gently tracing over the bruises. Despite being a few days old, the marks are still dark, deeply bruised, and Will knows that Hannibal sees violence in them. “He likes,” he starts without thinking, caring, somehow, that he not see them that way. “He didn’t see me for years. He… wanted to make a mark, something I can’t ignore so easily when I leave him again - uh, I mean - when - when I came back,” Will stumbles over his words in the same way he can fall from headspace to headspace, even in his own memory. He concentrates on watching Hannibal’s lips, instead of meeting his eyes and seeing the disappointment or disgust he expects to be there.

“And you could feel this?” Hannibal asks, his hands moving onto the last mark, the only one that broke the skin, though only slightly. “You could feel him doing it and it being done, when he bit down?”

Will knows what he’s saying, what he’s asking, and he nods for a long moment, slowly. “Yes,” he breaths, understanding he’s admitting to more than just those marks.

Hannibal considers this, his hands still on Will’s chest. “Should we be done with these too?” he asks after a moment, and this time Will’s nod is quicker, almost immediate. Hannibal doesn’t wait to meet his eye before he leans forward and up, bringing his head, his mouth to Will’s chest at the same time that his hands move to either side of Will’s hips, preempting any movement Will might want to make.

He doesn’t start gently, as Will half-expects. Instead, Hannibal takes the skin over Will’s collarbone and _bites_ down, holding the skin between his teeth and sucking, hard. Will throws his head back, trying not to pull away. He is sure there will be blood - it _hurts_ like there should be blood - but when he looks down a second later, when Hannibal has moved on and is tonguing at the second mark, the skin is red and angry-looking but unbroken. Will watches this time, unmoving, as Hannibal bites down, equally hard, over the second mark, just below the first.

Will is very aware of a growing heaviness between his legs, his cock growing harder as Hannibal sucks on the skin, the light layer of muscle beneath it. He feels more blood rush to his cock as Hannibal releases him and moves downward slightly, to the last bruise. Will only has a second to think _this is sick, I’m really sick to get off on this_ before Hannibal bites down there too, harder than he had before, and Will can’t prevent the shudder that passes through him, the breathy noise he makes.

This time Hannibal does break the skin, Will can feel it, can feel the moment when his skin breaks and Hannibal’s teeth sink deeper in. Will looks down, watching a tiny drop of red crawl down his skin from where Hannibal’s mouth is still on his chest, sucking his own mark into Will’s skin, and Will is suddenly rock hard, his cock tenting out his loose sweat pants obscenely. When he sees Hannibal’s tongue flick out, licking at the blood he’s caused, Will presses down, grinding his hips and cock into Hannibal.

Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge Will’s obvious arousal, though Will can feel Hannibal’s growing thickness beneath him and knows he’s not immune to it. “His aim was to mark you as his.” Hannibal speaks without moving away from Will, his words slightly muffled against Will’s skin, his mouth shining with Will’s blood. He moves across to the other marks, biting gently at both. 

Will is struggling to stay still, grunting slightly as he tries not to think about how hard he is already, what this is doing to him, and how he can feel Hannibal growing hard against him.

“But you’re not his, are you, Will?” Hannibal continues, before biting hard on the middle bruise, breaking the skin again. He moves back slightly, so that he and Will can watch blood well at the marks Hannibal’s teeth have left around, on top of, his bruised skin. A drop soon breaks free, slowly falling down Will’s chest, and Hannibal catches it with his tongue, licking it back up to where another drop is threatening to do the same. Will can’t help his reaction, pressing into Hannibal’s mouth, his tongue, and _moaning._

“And if you wanted to be marked,” Hannibal says, as Will struggles to remember to breath. “You only had to ask.” Hannibal gives no warning before his mouth is back on the deepest bruise, the worst of all the marks, and this time when he bites down he doesn’t let go, instead pulling away slightly - and Will can feel the moment when his skin _rips,_ when it’s no longer just teethmarks making him bleed, but a real bite, a small section of skin bitten away entirely.

Will isn’t sure what happens next, he knows he’s not entirely aware of every moment of time, but somehow Hannibal has moved his lips, taken his mouth away from where Will’s bleeding freely, and he lifts Will up, flipping him over. Will’s on his back now, his cock leaking, desperate for contact, and Will is just opening his mouth to - he’s not sure, probably _beg_ for Hannibal to touch him - when Hannibal leans over him, pressing their hips together. 

Hannibal is still fully dressed, still has his fucking _jacket_ on, and Will has never wanted to touch him as much as he wants to right now.

“I wanna suck you,” he forces out, grabbing the front of Hannibal’s jacket and pulling him closer, feeling the hard line of his cock through his pants.

“No,” Hannibal says, his voice steady. “Let’s try something new this time, shall we?”

“Please,” Will’s voice is strangled but _god_ he wants it, wants to feel Hannibal’s cock in his mouth _so much_. The bite on his chest is still bleeding slightly, and Will wants to feel Hannibal come before it finishes, before it starts to scab over and heal.

“I think you’ve made it quite clear that what you _want_ is to be marked, dear Will.” Hannibal says, grasping Will’s wrists and preventing him from pulling Hannibal closer. “And those superficial wounds are _not_ what I was intending.”

Hannibal lets go of his wrists, dislodging Will’s hold on his jacket, and Hannibal’s hands are quickly on Will’s biceps, pressing him down into the bed and preventing most movement. “You don’t like me to touch you,” he says, and Will feels stupid for ever thinking that Hannibal wouldn’t have noticed. Hannibal must read something of this on his face because he smiles slightly. “Ah, didn’t think I’d picked up on that, did you?”

Will doesn’t answer. He thinks he should be protesting this, should be struggling to get away and stop this, but instead he bucks up against Hannibal, searching for friction. Hannibal cants his hips away from Will, shaking his head. No.

“You’ve made it quite clear that you have to be in control in sexual situations,” Hannibal continues and Will almost rolls his eyes at his psychoanalysis, in _this_ of all situations, but thinks that might stop Hannibal and he would much rather get to the part where he gets to _touch him_ than distract him with anymore talk about psychotherapy or how much Will hates it.

Although he manages not to roll his eyes, Hannibal obviously picks up on Will’s annoyance, and he sounds amused as he keeps speaking. “But let’s try something new, shall we? If you don’t like to be touched, Will, then I won’t touch you. But you won’t touch either. Not until I’m done.”

Before Will can properly understand take this in, Hannibal all but attacks his mouth, still holding him down as he kisses him fiercely, biting at his lips and forcing his tongue into Will’s mouth, who sucks on it greedily. Will moans into the kiss when Hannibal lets one of his arms go, reaching down to - Will hears - undo his own belt and fly.

Will thinks he might taste blood on his lips when Hannibal moves back onto his heels, and Will can only image what he looks like, laid out in front of him and already _so_ desperate. “Take off your trousers,” Hannibal says, palming his cock. He’s opened his fly and pulled his own pants down slightly, but he hasn’t removed his expensive-looking black briefs, though Will can see the fabric is darker where Hannibal has already leaked onto it. Will reaches to touch him, but Hannibal blocks him, pushing his arm roughly away. “Get on your stomach,” he says calmly, his voice making it obvious that he will not repeat himself again, “and take off your clothes.”

And _god_ this is fucked, Will knows this is - this is _years_ of therapy and his vision blurs even while he’s moving, rushing to do what Hannibal’s asked him, a strangled laugh escaping as he realizes that it’s definitely _more_ fucked up that he’s doing - that, that this is happening with, technically, his fucking _psychiatrist_. He sheds his pants and briefs and his cock springs free, impossibly hard, the tip wet and swollen. He flips over, crawling onto his stomach, and reaches down to take himself in hand. The relief is instant, but he only pulls on himself once, twice before Hannibal rips his hands away.

“No, no,” he says, still sound amused, and Will looks back at him. “I said on your stomach, Will - I did not say you could touch yourself.”

Will turns back, looking ahead, and hesitantly brings his hands up to rest by his shoulders, feeling the place where Hannibal bit him rubbing against his sheets. He presses his hips into the bed, struggling to find _some_ relief, but even while he’s feeling more and more desperate to touch, to be touched, he can appreciate that through all of this, he’s all there, that he’s not struggling to stay present. It’s only because he recognizes this that he doesn’t panic when, a moment later, Hannibal uses his knee to nudge Will’s legs apart. He grabs Will’s ass with both hands, kneading his cheeks, and then spreading them and holding them apart, open. Will takes a deep breath as he feels Hannibal’s fingers probing at him, finding his hole and stopping there, against it.

Hannibal’s fingers are dry, maybe wet with spit or just sweat, and he traces over Will’s hole only once, twice, before he’s pulling away. “Do you have any kind of lubricant or -” he starts, but Will doesn’t let him finish.

“No.” Will looks over his shoulder, back at Hannibal. “You keep talking about marking me, then _mark_ me. Nothing else, just you.”

It’s exactly what Hannibal wanted to hear, and Will can’t pretend he didn’t know this. He turns around again and he feels Hannibal’s fingers back on him, rubbing against his hole, still mostly dry. They’re removed again, quickly, and Will can hear Hannibal spitting onto his hand - even that sounding fucking classy when he’s doing it - before they’re back, with a bit of moisture, teasing Will until he drops his forehead to the bed and makes a pitiful sound.

“Are you - please,” he manages, his voice barely there, but Hannibal hears him and takes it as the invitation it is. He pushes a finger into him, slowly, and Will closes his eyes, expelling a loud breath into the mattress. The first finger is barely in when Hannibal is pulling out and forcing a second one alongside it, stretching him, and it hurts, stings. Will is almost glad, the pain bringing him back from the edge of orgasm. 

With the notable exception of just a few days ago, Will hasn’t done this - this part of it, that is - in years, more than a decade. He knows they should be going slower, that the pull and burn he’s feeling now will hurt tomorrow, but right now this is exactly what he wants, and when the pain fades slightly, becoming less heated, Will pushes back again Hannibal, forcing both fingers deeper inside him.

“Enough,” he says a few seconds later, after barely a minute of Hannibal stretching him, working a bit of spit against his hole. It’s not enough, not really, and Will’s voice sounds choked when Hannibal doesn’t stop immediately and he continues. “I - I want _you_ ,” he admits and it costs something to admit it, to ask for that, but Will’s too far gone to care anymore.

Hannibal’s fingers shift, delving in still deeper and Will feels the pain for just a second before Hannibal brushes against his prostate and Will can’t help his gasp, stuck between the burning pain and this new pleasure.

Will’s eyes are open but his vision goes black at the edges, his hearing dropping away for a minute, but he’s still all there, still present, and it’s not like other time he’s tried this, let people fuck him and felt disconnected, like he could have floated away, as if he wasn’t involved at all. And it’s not like the _other_ times, when he was flooded with memories of past experiences, of him and others - it’s just _this_ , and he’s there with Hannibal and it’s painful at the same time as it feels so _fucking_ good and Will isn’t used to this.

Hannibal has removed his fingers entirely when all of Will’s senses return to him, but before he can miss them he feels the blunt head of Hannibal’s cock brush against him. Will presses back, wanting more of Hannibal against him, more inside him, but Hannibal gently pushes him back down into the bed. Hannibal still hasn’t removed his clothing, his dress pants and underwear pulled down just enough, and Will fists his hands into the sheets to keep himself from reaching down to where his cock is back to aching, begging for some touch or pressure or _something._

Hannibal is mouthing at at the muscles on the backside of Will’s shoulder, where Will knows the old scar from his stabbing is fading slowly. He tongues around it for just a second, his body flush against Will’s back, before biting down, hard, sinking his teeth into him again.

“I want my marks,” Hannibal says after a minute, a minute where the skin breaks and Will can’t help moaning again, feeling precum drip from his neglected cock onto the mattress below, “to be the only marks on you.”

It’s taking all of Will’s concentration to keep from touching himself, to keep from mindlessly rutting into his bed, and so when Hannibal lines himself up to enter Will, he pushes back, wanting his cock inside him despite anticipating the pain.

But Hannibal stills, unmoving, and Will thinks he might _scream_. “Are you sure?” Hannibal asks softly, and Will can’t read his voice, is unsure if Hannibal would stop if he asked, right now, for this to be over. He’s never been scared of Hannibal, has in fact only found him a comforting figure, but right now Will isn’t sure that he could stop Hannibal from entering him, from fucking him, even if he wanted to.

“Yes,” Will says, as if he had a choice, still pushing backwards, his body doing all it can to feel as much of Hannibal against him as possible.

Hannibal doesn’t waste time working himself in gently, and instead Will thinks he might split apart when he feels Hannibal shove inside him, forcing his entire length into Will. It _hurts_ and Will moans again, this time not entirely out of pleasure.

Hannibal stops when he is flush against Will’s back, fully inside him, letting Will adjust for a second before he moves. Will’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s biting his lip again, trying to remember the pleasure and ignore the pain. He’s still adjusting when Hannibal moves, pulling out before pushing in again, harder, this time rubbing against Will’s prostate.

Will can’t help the sound he makes - somewhere between a moan and a sob - and he knows that his face is wet with tears, matching the wetness of blood still on his chest and now his back. He tries, again, to reach down and touch himself, his cock still rock hard through all of this, but Hannibal blocks him even as he pulls out again and slams back in, just as rough.

“No,” he growls, and _fuck_ , Will isn’t sure if he’s starting to hate that word or developing some sort of sick Pavlovian response to is. “Not until I’m done.”

Will exhales what could be a sob, almost, as Hannibal grabs his hips and manipulates his body up and away from the mattress below him, taking away the tiny bit of relief Will could get, the only pressure against his cock. Hannibal keeps his hands on Will’s hips as he slams into him, again and again, and Will’s gone past any pain as Hannibal hits that spot, again and again.

It’s too much and Will’s mind slips. His eyes are closed, suddenly, and he’s confused, because this is all too new and this isn’t what usually happens - it isn’t like last time, when Will was too drunk to remember it all and his father was so eager to please Will, as if that would erase all his past sins, the hundred of times he’d taken his pleasure and ignored Will’s entirely, ignored his _injuries_. Will’s pulling away before he realizes it, his mind foggy and unclear, when Hannibal grabs his hips harder, pulling Will’s entire frame back, hard, onto his cock.

There’s a quick flash of pain and it’s enough to clear his mind, his eyes shooting open as he’s suddenly back and knows what’s happening and is scared of losing that all again. “Stop,” he tries to say, but he can’t even understand himself and knows Hannibal didn’t hear him. Because it _is_ Hannibal, it’s Hannibal that’s pushing into him, that’s _fucking_ him, _using_ him, and Will _knows_ that and doesn’t want to let his mind wander away again. “Stop,” he says again, clear and louder, and Will is only a little surprised when Hannibal does, instantly ceasing his movements and slipping out of him, stilling on his knees behind Will.

Hannibal’s hand are gentle, this time, as they move from Will’s waist up to his shoulders, gently pulling him back until he’s kneeling too, the back of his shoulder - still gentle bleeding - against Hannibal’s front. Hannibal nudges at Will’s neck with his nose and then his lips, kissing it, before bringing his mouth back to the wound on Will’s shoulder, licking away what little bit of blood is smeared there. Will turns back to him and Hannibal abandons his shoulder to meet his mouth. Will can taste the iron in their kiss, his blood on Hannibal’s lips and tongue, and he thinks again how messed up this all is before melting further against Hannibal. He keeps his eyes open as they kiss, reminding himself of who he’s with, who is there and who is not.

“Too desperate to wait?” Hannibal mumbles again Will’s mouth, finally - _finally_ \- bringing a hand down to Will’s cock, impossibly hard against his stomach. Hannibal skates his hands over its length lightly and Will can’t break the kiss, running his tongue against Hannibal’s, so relieved at even this feather-light touch.

“No - Yes, I mean - just - can I turn over?” Will says in between desperate sounding noises, pulling away only slightly and too far gone to be embarrassed at just how fried his brain is. “I mean - I want to see you.” He’s struggling to resist moving his hips, knowing that wouldn’t please Hannibal, but Will wants him pushing into him, against him, again - he just wants to make sure he knows who he’s with while it happens.

Hannibal doesn’t answer, but pulls back from Will, quickly helping him turn to face him. Will presses against him immediately, feeling the scratch of Hannibal’s shirt, his fucking _jacket_ , against his naked skin. He’s kissing him again as Hannibal adjusts so that their cocks are lined up, rubbing against each other in between them, and Will is so close he’s worried he might come from that alone.

“Lie back,” Hannibal says when he pulls away from Will’s lips a few seconds later, holding both of their cocks in his hand. “I’m not done.”

Will groans at the loss of contact as he lies back down, this time on his back, but it’s only a minute until Hannibal’s weight is on him again, his cock pushing into him again. With every thrust, Will’s own cock is finally given some relief, dragging against the hard planes of Hannibal’s stomach as Hannibal holds onto Will’s shoulder and fucks into him.

Hannibal makes a low noise, and pulls back, and without thinking, Will reaches down for himself again. “No!” Hannibal says, and his voice could be either amused or annoyed as he pushes Will’s hand away again. He keeps one hand on Will’s wrist, pinning it to the mattress near Will’s shoulder, and leans over him. His other hand is on his cock, a blur of speed, and Will only understands what happening when the first pulse of heat falls on him, followed by another and another. 

Hannibal sighs deeply, loudly, as his pulls slow, his come in ribbons across Will’s stomach, his chest, Will’s own red and leaking cock. Will feels the heat all across him, but can’t look away from the line of milky fluid running across where Hannibal bit into him, where it mingles with the blood that’s still seeping out of the wound.

He only realizes Hannibal is finished when he feels Hannibal’s hand on his cock, and it only takes a few long strokes until Will arches back into the bed, his hands scrambling at Hannibal’s arms, as he feels his own heat join the mess already on his stomach and chest.

“Fuck,” Will says a long minute later, letting his hands drop to his side, his head still back and his eyes closed. “Fuck.”

“You wanted marked, my dear.” Hannibal’s hands are warm against Will’s chest, his skin, his broken skin, and Will knows if he looked down, if he could move enough to manage it, he would see Hannibal using their come to message Will, rubbing it into his skin and into the bites. And that shouldn’t be hot but fuck if Will doesn’t think, just for a second, that he might get hard again from that alone.

“Fuck,” Will says again. He’s not sure how long it is until Hannibal’s weight is once again on him, meeting his mouth for a long kiss. Will opens his eyes when Hannibal pulls away a few minutes later, and he manages to gather enough energy to move his arms around Hannibal’s back, keeping him in place against him. He raises his head up, pushing it into Hannibal’s shoulder and he ignores the warning pang in his neck - it’s easier than meeting Hannibal’s eyes.

“That was fucked up,” Will says, his words muffled. “I’m fucked up.” He tightens his hold on Hannibal’s shirt and jacket, fisting his hands into the fabric even as he realizes he must be ruining the front of both with their mess. “I’m sorry, I’m fucked up,” he repeats, pushing his face tighter against him as he feels tears threaten to spill and a new rush of self-loathing pulses through him.

Hannibal’s hand is on the back of his head, cradling it slightly for a long second, before pulling back, gently removing himself from Will’s hold. Will doesn’t follow, instead leaning back against the pillow behind him, his eyes tracking Hannibal as he finds the shirt Will had been wearing, still on the bed beside them. Hannibal uses it to wipe at the rapidly cooling semen, cleaning it off Will, and Will struggles to keep the tears at bay as he turns his head towards the window, unable to watch.

He feels rather than sees Hannibal stand up, leaving the bed, and Will turns onto his side, curling into himself. He closes his eyes, still keeping his face toward the window. It seems like a long time until Will feels the dip of the bed beside him, the heat of Hannibal - now undressed, at least from what Will can feel - pressing against his back, the urgency that had dominated both of them just a few minutes ago now gone completely.

Will tries to take a deep breath, his inhalation shuddering, but still doesn’t move, though he can feel his hands shaking, ever so slightly, and he wonders if they’d ever actually stopped. “My dear Will,” he hears, and feels Hannibal’s hand brush against his forehead, pushing some of his damp curls away. Will is afraid if he opens his eyes, if he moves, he’ll be crying - sobbing - again, and so he stays motionless, still turned towards the window, as Hannibal runs his hands soothingly along his forehead and down over his cheek.

Will clenches his hands, his fingernails digging into his palms, and struggles to remain still. The cuts - no, the _bites_ \- on his chest and shoulder sting and he’s sore in other spots and he hates himself when the slight pain sends a rush of warmth, of fucking _comfort_ through him because he’s very aware that Hannibal was not the first person to connect pain and sex in Will’s mind.

 _I’m so fucked up,_ Will thinks again, afraid to speak, afraid to open his eyes, and it’s as if Hannibal hears him because it’s only a few seconds later that he feels Hannibal press a gentle kiss to his chest, above where his skin is torn away, as he says softly, “You are perfect.”


End file.
